At Large
'At Large' 'Morla Clarigo, Great Sea Unspecified Location, Pre-Dawn 1' "What’s the word from topside?" “Plenty of Rito traffic to and fro from Forsaken Fortress lately. Boss wants to head that way before the big party starts.” “Is that why we’ve been pulling double shifts? My sinuses are killing me after two days in this boiler room.” “She says it’ll mean double our money on the other side, so I ain’t complainin’, not yet anyway.” “This weather vane we’re picking up better be worth it. You ask me, I’d say we’re lost, and this business about a new recruit is just a con 'til they think of something else.” “I guess we’ll see, won’t we? Tonight’s supposed to be the night.” Two Gorons dressed in black burlap overalls stabbed into a heap of coal piled up against the far wall across from the ship’s furnace. They shoveled their lumps of coal into the furnace rhythmically, one after the other as if dancing with the flames. Their gruff staccato grunts blended with the crunching, steaming coals into a percussion like boots marching on rock. As they worked, a low hum suddenly filled the small iron chamber. It steadily grew louder, and the Gorons paused in their toil as they realized the ship was surfacing. A churning ripple slowly dipped concave into the ocean’s waves, gathering speed and radius as the bronze mast of a metallic, covered ship suddenly rose from beneath its murky waters. In plates of dark amber and polished steel and bronze, a wide, low vessel emerged bearing rounded windows along its sides where long wooden oars were now being extended. Alternating between every other oar was a wider opening for the long, iron barrels of an array of mounted guns. As it arose from the waters, its covered iron plates grinded apart to either side of the ship, revealing a traditional longship's forecastle underneath the mechanical shield. At its bow, a polished mahogany figurehead looked skyward, carved in the likeness of a fierce snapping turtle. It was still night yet, and the polished eyes of the turtlehead and the brushed copper and steel of the ship’s hull glistened in the crystalline light of moon and stars bouncing off the waves under the clear, cold sky. The finely forged ship cut through the water like a knife, almost silent amid the waves in the dark of night, but it could not move on its own power for long. A tightly sealed iron lid popped open along the foredeck, and a slender figure climbed out of it wearing a long, dark red maritime coat and black wide-brimmed, tricorner hat over auburn locks and pale green eyes. A slightly curved rapier hung sheathed at her hip, and a blunderbuss was slung snug in its holster along the other side. She held a lantern aloft and looked up towards her second mate, a stained and greasy bottle of rum in her other hand. “Captain, we’ve spied land, the first sign of it in three days since we lost our coordinates,” a brown-feathered Rito with the face and talons of a hawk called down to her from a raised platform on the aft deck. Morla made her way to his side and gripped her fingers around the embossed bronze handles of the wheel at the ship’s helm. “See? What I tell ya, Rhys—three days, just like the old man’s instructions said,” she quipped, handing off the bottle of rum to him. “And you all doubted me.” “Begging your pardon, m’lady—it’s not often that the captain is right, and the stars are wrong.” The Rito took a swig of the bottle himself and stepped back from the helm with a sarcastically low bow, tucking the rum under his spotted wing. “Something you may not know about me, bird,” Morla said, squaring her feet below her hips and taking the wheel. “I’m always right.” She spun the wheel of the helm vigorously to starboard, and the Turtle Ship made its way east towards the green and mountainous island gradually fading into view amidst a distant fog, eerily moonlit as if the silver light were attracted to its shores. With the ship in navigation mode, her crew unfurled its black sails along the length of the high mast, emblazoned with her symbol of a Clock Face within a Crescent Moon, and a strong easterly wind picked up behind them as if to carry them towards the island’s central cove. 'Silas Vindr, Late Night 0' With his hunger sated, the moon god had taken to the night sky once more to resume his cyclical pursuit of his sister sun across the heavens. Or so the Father of the People and their ancestors would have you believe. Silas was not so certain anymore. He questioned this, the story of the darkness loving Fox and the Hare, he who was the shining believer of daylight, and many more things that the shamans and the spoken word histories of the People would have him believe. Whatever the cause or reason, the young hunter found himself thankful for the added light on this night, but not so thankful that he failed to conceal himself. It had become second nature now, but he still reveled in the sensation brought on by asserting his dominance over the flow of the Breath Soul. The push and pull against the spirits of the wind and the world envigorated him and it was with a satisfied grin that he pulled the island mists close, cloaking himself in their concealing embrace. His silver streaked coal black hair, flattened by the dampness, clung to his face and neck. The wolf pelt cloak, open to reveal the bronzed and scarred skin of his chest hung heavily over his seal skin pants and boots. A dagger carved from a single piece of glossy black stone hung in a sealskin sheath at his waist secured by a length of woven rope and the jawbone of the Gyorg he had killed on his first spirit hunt was slung across his back. With the mist cradling him, he was a wraith in the night as he climbed higher up the side of the stony spire. The mighty Helmaroc was feigning sleep when he reached her perch, she knew it was him and she wanted to know why he had returned after he had already bested her and claimed one of her tail feathers as his prize. “Be at ease mother Helmaroc. I have no quarrel with you. I bring a gift for the young. An offering of peace.” Silas removed two large fish from inside his cloak and tossed them into the nest. The two young Helmaroc snatched the fish from the air and immediately began gorging themselves on the fresh fish. Silas smiled as they went about their business and turned to face the rising sun. The stories would have you believe that Malina had avoided Anningan for another night and in so doing, brought forth her light once more as the first light of day pierced the darkness. But still, he doubted. A disturbance in the waters caught his eye and as he turned his attention to it, his breath caught in his throat. An enormous sea turtle had begun to surface off of the coast of the island. Trembling, Silas wondered if all of his doubts had been wrong. Had Sassuma Arnaa, the Mother of the Deep, come to pass judgement on the People. On him? On he who had questioned the very existence of the gods? Steadying himself, Silas squared his shoulders. He would meet Sassuma Arnaa on his terms. Reaching out he brushed against the mother Helmaroc, beckoning to her with Breath and spirit. “I who have bested you and named myself master of your Breath Soul have need of your wings. Fly me to the beach so that I may face the daughter of Anigut the Creator. Then you must flee as I entreat with her on all our behalf.” The great bird dipped its head and splayed her wings wide in a show of submission allowing Silas to scramble onto her back. The wind whipped his still damp hair and his sodden cloak billowed behind them as the mother Helmaroc took to the skies, circling her nest once before dropping into screaming dive. Silas saw through her eyes and beheld the transformation of the mighty sea turtle as it morphed into something else. Some sort of sea faring vessel. Whatever this was, whoever it was encroaching their waters. It was no goddess. Silas freed the jawbone from his back and laid it across his lap as the Helmaroc circled the beach. 'Morla Clairgo, Great Sea, Day 1' The shimmering bronze length of the Turtle Ship cut across the waters at lightning pace, a supernatural force propelling it from its arcane mechanical engines. The breaking sun glanced across its gleaming metals and through the great white arcs of foam spraying from its two rear propellers. At its helm, Morla gazed along the coast of the distant isle and tried to discern what lay behind its mists. “Is that a…bird?” She squinted in the dawn halflight and mist surrounding this forbidden island, her red locks twisting in the wind as the ship accelerated. Short wings of steam lanced out from the Turtle hull’s four large, mounted cannon-limbs. As her vessel gained speed, Morla’s first mate, Rhys, got a closer look. “Not just any bird, a Helmaroc. Sovereign of the mountaintop you see to the south, no doubt. One wonders what ore may be buried under her nesting grounds.” The grey spotted Rito nudged Morla’s spyglass to the right as she carefully surveyed the topography. “But there’s…something else,” his voice fell to whisper. “Something else, you say?” Morla lowered the spyglass and returned her attention to the mast and the choppy waters ahead, leaving the scouting to her avian lieutenant. Rhys had worked for the Rito King of these waters as a fledgling, and his services as chief intelligence officer hadn’t come cheap. But this wasn’t the only forbidden locale on their itinerary, and Morla’s voyage was to take her deep into the whirling pool of the Great Sea’s island nations. She would come to rely on him only the more as their journey continued. “Spit it out, wingman.” “Yes, captain. She bears a rider.” At that, Morla popped her spyglass back open and peered along the coast, spotting the great bird soaring over the beaches. Its chromatic plumage glistened in the morning light, and its piercing yellow eyes unexpectedly met hers even at this impossible distance, as if it knew where to find her at a level deeper than sight. It seemed to take up half the sky, but as it turned slowly towards her, she saw a small humanoid figure on its back. His grey cloak seemed to merge with the fog encompassing the beachhead, its turning clouds draped from the black and red wings of his mount. “So? He seems a wretched thing. Do they not often accept riders?” “No, captain. Most unusual. And their chieftain is nowhere in sight. This may be the seer himself.” “Hm. Maybe not so wretched after all. What do you say, Rhys, shall we test the wares?” She lowered her glass again and pulled back a tall bronze lever attached the floor at her feet. “Word to the crew, we’re taking the beach: Arrowhead formation.” Rhys leaned toward the bell of a large copper horn attached the deck and shouted Morla’s orders down a copper pipe leading belowdecks. After a beat, the Turtle Ship picked up steam. When the island came within ramming speed, a low groaning emerged from the hull of the Turtle Ship, and a flaming light lapped at the cracked mouth of its beak and beady eyes. As the first rays of sun pierced over the horizon, Morla’s ship crashed into the shore and sliced into its shallow dunes in a fanning cloud of sand. As the ship ground to a halt with an echo of churning metal, the Turtle’s limbs extended into spiny, bronze cannons. With the two starboard cannons trained on a spot twenty yards out from the ship, Morla herself descended a retractable ladder welded into the hull of the ship with a graceful slide. As her boots hit the sand, the Helmaroc touched down just out of the two cannon’s accuracy. She didn’t draw her sword or cock her firearm, but she kept the shining brass of her scabbard and holster visible with the length of her red coat pulled back around her waist. The silhouettes of the ship’s crew lined the deck of her ship, each of them ready to follow their captain into combat. The bird’s mysterious rider remained high atop his regal avian mount, clutching the down feathers at the back of its neck as she drew near. “You must be Silas,” she called out in a high, clear voice, crossing her eyes as she planted her feet in the sand a few paces away from the strutting roc. “I see your old one couldn’t make it, but I don’t blame him for sleeping in. Remind me again why we had to do this so early?” She stretched, standing in place, and yawned dramatically. “Just call me the early bird,” she joked, gesturing toward the Helmaroc. “And that makes you the worm?” She took two steps closer to the bird, eyes up toward the man in the cloak riding its back, and rested one hand on the butt of her blunderbuss. “I hope you’ve said your valedictions. Forgive me, but I’m loathe to visit your culty little village if we can avoid it. Now come along, we haven’t much time before the equinox.” 'Seeds' 'Sirius Fulmaren, Crescent Moon Isle, Day 1' After living in the same grand, overindulgent, ridiculous setting for so long, Sirius had longed for something simpler. He had built and rebuilt the same magical laboratory for hundreds of years, always in grand fashion. His labs of the past had looked more like castles, and felt like dungeons. Being unable to truly let much of anything go, Sirius had instead opted to put his original laboratory on the backburner, locking it up and transporting it to the bottom of the ocean. A fresh start, but always with that small chance of opening a door back into tradition. Now he had a much more modest setup, a two story cottage with a thatched roof crammed with traditional alchemist equipment, and a few other oddities. In addition, it had a secret basement or two, but none of the sprawling insanity of his labs of old. Instead Sirius got to feel the cool ocean breeze as he worked, and sun on his face. It let him pretend he was a proper mortal, instead of whatever horrifying abomination that actually composed his being. Upon the east wall, a massive grid was laid out. Working with his daughter Severa, and other key allies, Sirius had put together a list of names and faces. Each grid square held a single face or name. They had tried to order the list by the ease at which the individuals could be found, but it was mostly guesswork and was effectively a random list. He was preparing to add a few more names to the list, based on attendance numbers for the tournament. Knock Knock Knock Sirius waved his hand through the air in response to the knocks, and his front door swung open. A man and a woman, both wearing ceremonial burial robes, stood in the doorway. Each one had a rather deep and recent looking scar down the left side of their temple, and their skin looked like what most would consider ‘dead and rotten’. “I’m glad you two could make it. Have you been awake long?” Sirius turned to his guests, who looked disoriented and exhausted. “Please, sit.” Sirius had expected these two, but not so soon. He had sent out a trusted ally to carry out the ressurection ritual. Unfortunately the bodies had long vanished, so Sirius had to get a little creative with that part. He figured it had been long enough that at least one of them had a tongue by now, and could explain what happened. “Who woke you up? Was it the goron?” In response the womans mouth opened in a scream, and black sludge began pouring out of it. “Teval, I need help now!” Sirius shouted. He heard a furious screech as a Rito soared through the doorway into the pair of undead. Hastily Sirius searched for several key ingredients in his lab, a simple concoction known to put the undead into a sort of stasis. He swirled the ingredients up while his guard Teval held the zombies down. They had now switched to screaming in between spitting up sludge. Not the most tense situation Sirius had been in, but easily a top contender for grossest. Potion ready he filled a syringe and injected it into both Zombies. Within a few seconds they each went rigid and stopped making any noise. “Have the others help you bring them into the basement. Keep them locked up. Someone wanted them to come here, and might be following up on this little gift in the near future.” Sirius commanded Teval, referring to the other three bodyguards, Jango, Irwin, and Huck. They weren’t real bodyguards, but a Rito band that had over the years made heavy use of technology provided by Sirius. Sirius didn’t get directly paid for the arrangement, but was essentially able to gather huge volumes of information from the crowds of each concert they played. So he got paid. He kept them around as bodyguards because the technology they used also heavily augmented their combat capabilities, general strength, and stamina. Sirius frowned as the four of them carried the bodies out, mumbling under his breath. “Sorry Tillorn, Aurelia. I might have been too late for you two.” 'Admiral Locke Dashar, The Midnight Wolf (Two Eye Reef), Morning One' The aftcastle swayed beneath the Admiral's boots as he stood at the wheel of his flagship--one gloved hand resting on the lacquered wooden railing--and looked down over the quarterdeck. The Midnight Wolf and the other ships of his squadron rested at anchor safely within the sheltering walls of Two Eye Reef, poised at the southernmost edge of the Great Sea, looking out beyond the line of ethereal locomotive tracks and toward the seemingly endless horizon. Elsewhere along this southern border the bulk of the South Fleet was fanning out, broken up into discrete squadrons of five or six warships apiece, sailing from end to end. to and fro along the commercial shipping lanes as they so often did. But on this day they were not patrolling for smugglers and pirates; such trivial nuisances did not bring the Admiral himself along with the full force of the Talon Guard down from the Tower of the Gods or their primary anchorage at Six Eye Reef. No, it was not pirates or smugglers, or other petty criminals who had so agitated the Fleet of the Isles. It was dark tidings that had brought Locke south to take command of the South Fleet at the behest of King Daphnali. There had been reports of late, disturbing ones, of merchant cogs vanishing in the expanse of ocean south of the Spirit Tracks. For years the reaches beyond the border created by the tracks had been more dangerous than the seas within, but even with piracy at its height in recent years never had there been so many disappearances, so many lost shipments and lost rupees. Those losses had begun to affect the royal coffers, and privateers upon whom their commerce relied had begun to complain that they could no longer count on the protection of the Council. Taken to its logical extreme, if matters weren't rectified in the southern reaches and soon, it could have devastating effects on the solvency of the Isles. With a burgeoning population and limited landmass upon which to farm, trade with the mainland nations was critical to the security and prosperity of the Great Sea, and so with their losses continuing to mount, King Daphnali had personally dispatched Locke south with the Talon Guard to lead the investigation. That was why Locke was here, now, waiting at the stern of his ship with his free hand casually fingering the glittering basket-hilt of his cutlass, when the Rito messenger alighted on the aftcastle railing beside him and then hopped down, immediately snapping off a rigid salute. The loose-fitting naval coat with the wing badge named her a scout for the Fleet of the Isles--Locke knew that all too well, having been the one who had taken such pains to integrate the different peoples of the Great Sea into a single force. Every ship of the fleet counted a Rito flyer among its crew, making coordination between the different squadrons, regional fleets, and the Tower of the Gods faster and more secure than relying on standard post. "Scout Trestyl reporting in from the 3rd Squadron as ordered, Admiral," she said in the usual perfunctory manner. Locke inclined his head toward her instead of returning the formal salute. "At ease, sailor." The Rito immediately settled into a more relaxed stance with her wings crossed behind her lower back. "You have the report from Captain Hurin?" With a nod, she unfolded her wings and then reached inside the flap of the carrier satchel slung across her shoulder, drawing out a furled sheaf of parchment and handing it over to him. "The report comes from a merchant who said she and her crew had to abandon their ship in their only lifeboat. Two trading ships heavy with produce bound for Outset Isle and a plan to reload their holds there for the return trip. A few days out from Outset they claim to have encountered a maelstrom of incredible power, 'like nothing we've ever heard of or seen' to use her exact words. Formed as if out of nowhere, she said, and pulled the first ship down before she could give an order. She managed to get at least some of her crew to the lifeboat before her ship was pulled apart after it. They were lucky to make it away from the vortex at all, if half of what she had to say was true." "If it was true?" Locke asked of Scout Trestyl, cocking an eyebrow as he eyed the report in his hands. "You don't believe her?" "Whirlpools forming out of nowhere under a clear blue sky, sir? I can't say I've ever heard of such a thing. And one with the force to rip two large trading cogs apart to boot?" He nodded absently. He could see the scout's point and understand her skepticism. He was of a mind to treat this in a similar fashion, but for the simple fact that this was the first survivor that they'd managed to find of all of the ships that had been disappearing of late. It was the only eye-witness account that they had to go on at present, and so he had to treat it as though it were feasible. "Was there anything else, sailor?" The Rito blinked and looked around, as though purposely avoiding his eyes. He cleared his throat loudly to bring her gaze back around to meet his own. "Well?" "Just the last thing the merchant captain said before she lost consciousness again is all," Scout Trestyl replied hesitantly. "They were all severely dehydrated by the time one of our patrols came across them floating out on the doldrums. She just said it was a feeling she got from the maelstrom. Not wind or wet or cold, but a feeling of... wrongness, as though the vortex was entirely unnatural, out of place. She said she felt the wrongness of it down to her bones." He nodded again, this time closing his fist tight around the written report as he did. The words on the page relayed the same message that Scout Trestyl had spoken aloud to him, but there was a difference hearing them from the tongue of another. He felt a pit of ice forming in his stomach as he contemplated the import of this account. He took a sharp breath and exhaled. "Return to Captain Hurin and let him know that your report has been delivered. Relay my orders that the 3rd Squadron is to sail for the coordinates that we've received from this merchant as soon as you arrive. From there you're to carry that message further east to the 2nd Squadron as well, out by Five Star Isles. I'll be sending Scout Aera of my own crew west with the same orders to the 1st Squadron over on the other side of Headstone Island. I mean to bring the entirety of the South Fleet out beyond the Spirit Tracks to that location to investigate. We'll start at the exact point where this merchant woman claims the vortex formed and then we'll spiral out from there until we find... whatever it is we're looking for." The Rito Scout straightened and then snapped off another quick salute. He returned it this time, and without another word she took to the sky again, shooting up into the morning air until she was little more than a speck of dark against the bright blue expanse. He watched her until her powerful wings carried her beyond the reach of his vision. Then he lowered his eyes back to the deck and cast his gaze back down to the rest of his crew below. He drew a deep breath again, exhaled sharply, and stepped to the railing to begin giving them their orders. 'An Anomalous Individual, Stowaway in Vera’s Fleet , Day 1' Nobody knew he was there, stowed away in the heart of Empress Vera’s southern fleet. His existence unknown, his world of origin consumed by The Empress. She’d stolen everything but his identity. He would forever be Stryver Chiaria, sworn to the Sheikah and guardian to the elemental stones. Thanks to the dark magic she employed, he no longer had a need for sleep or food. Did not tire, did not age. He was little more than a memory, but one that could kill you if you weren’t watching it. For months now he had stayed hidden, watching his primary target. It was one of Vera’s commanders, a monstrous hybrid creature. Covered by deep red subrosian robes, its goron-like arms and legs protruded out, while its face remained hidden in the robe. It spoke slowly and infrequently, and never with complexity. And yet his presence was so overwhelming, it was enough. Stryver had heard some crew members call him ‘Zosk’ but could never tell if it was a name or a title. Nevertheless, it was all he had to go on. Zosk killed a single crew member in the fleet every day. Ate them, actually. At first Stryver thought it was to instill fear, but in time he realized it was for food. He wasn’t a creature meant to be tamed into such a role. Vera had likely destroyed his world too, and kept him as an example on a tight leash and with limited food supply. Despite sharing a wonderful backstory together, Stryver still best preferred the idea of Zosk dying as quickly as possible. But he likely wouldn’t be making the killing strike before the first assault took place on the Great Sea’s southern border. It was an impressive number of ships for a first strike, thirty-five in total, each one identical on the exterior. They bore designs matching that of the fleets they were assaulting, a tactic Vera employed frequently to sow chaos. The crews of her ships were fully dedicated to dying in her name, and even a death via friendly fire was a joyous celebration of her character. So while Vera’s forces happily lost themselves in the confusion of identical fleets, the enemy would suffer far greater losses. It was cruel and efficient at accomplishing her endless task- break the worlds back and then drink its blood. It wouldn’t be long now before Stryver would get a chance to sow his own chaos. He knew the battle plan perfectly, and which ships to take out first. And taking them out would be more fun than challenge, the crews were surprisingly poor at detecting infiltration. Perhaps it had something to do with primarily being mindless shells stolen from dead worlds, and perhaps because Stryver had in his possession an object that was not supposed to exist given that the universe that powered it was eaten by Vera. He looked at it in his palm, the prism stone, an amalgamation of every elemental stone from his world. Even touching it once should have vaporized him, but logic had stopped applying to his life many years prior.